


Dead To The World

by QuothTheJester



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First fic please don't hurt me, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 03, Whump, with emphasis on the hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29721876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuothTheJester/pseuds/QuothTheJester
Summary: Imprisoned and far from home, Jim Hopper struggles to survive.
Relationships: Joyce Byers/Jim "Chief" Hopper
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever dared to publish, so I'm pretty terrified right now. But I thought this fandom needed some more Hopper whump, so here we go... *hides beneath blanket* Oh, and italics in the dialogue mean that they are speaking Russian.

_Shting_.

The sharp sound of his hammer hitting the nail is echoed all around him. He goes for another swing and winces as the movement makes tendrils of pain shoot up his back.

 _Shting_.

His back isn’t the only thing bothering Jim Hopper. The muscles in his arms and shoulders ache from the never-ending hard work. He is sweating uncomfortably beneath his large jacket, which both manages to be too thick for this kind of labor as well as way too thin for the freezing temperatures of Kamchatka, Russia.

 _Shting_.

The cold is biting against his face, and he lost feeling in his fingers and toes about four hours ago. Pneumonia is a constant threat and possibly a death sentence. In the time he’s been here he’s already had several bouts of fever and has no doubts he’ll get sick again. It seems working twelve hour shifts seven days of the week in freezing temperatures, while being fed just enough to keep them alive, is not doing wonders for the immune system.

 _Shting_.

He temporarily removes his hat so he can wipe sweat from his brow, taking a moment to catch his breath and look around.

The prisoner next to him, on the opposite rail, catches his attention as he looks more like a corpse than a living human being. The hands clutching the hammer are bony and almost blue from the cold, and Jim wonders what has happened to his gloves. His face is gaunt and haunted and the eyes empty as they stare down at the rail.

The prisoner swings his hammer down but misses the nail by several inches. He stumbles from the momentum and falls to his knees in the snow, straddling the rail. He doesn’t get back up.

A guard that is nearby – they are _always_ nearby – starts shouting at him. The prisoner doesn’t react. He just keeps staring down at the snow, like all the fight has been sucked out of him and he has nothing left to give.

The guard yells again and approaches the prisoner, towering over him. It is one of the more imposing Soviets Jim has seen, even taller than himself and sporting a thick, black beard. With a snarl, the guard draws his arm back.

Jim has no idea what possesses him to do what he does next. Perhaps it’s the cop inside him who refuses to stand by while a helpless man is being hurt. Or perhaps he simply harbors a death wish. Whatever the reason, as the Russian guard is about to deliver a blow to the other prisoner’s face, Jim lunges forward. He throws himself in front of the captive and catches the guard’s raised arm, yelling _“Stop!”_ in Russian as he does.

To say that the guard doesn’t approve would be the understatement of the century. Spitting out Russian words too quickly for Jim to pick up, he shrugs the arm off before slamming the butt of his rifle into Jim’s head. The pain almost blinds him as he crumples to the ground close to the other prisoner, who is staring at him with wide eyes. Others are staring, too. They’ve caused quite the commotion, and several prisoners have stopped working to watch the scene unfold.

The guard grabs Jim by the collar of his jacket and pulls him up roughly, seemingly with ease. That’s another consequence of spending months upon months imprisoned in a freaking gulag; he’s lost so much weight that he can be manhandled like a goddamned ragdoll nowadays.

The guard screams into his face, making drops of spittle fly everywhere. He is about to let Jim have the punch that was intended for the gloveless man when another guard steps forward.

“ _Nyet,_ Ivan,” he says calmly and sounds almost disinterested. He says something else to the man, but the only words Jim manages to translate are _“work”_ and _“later”_.

Ivan is shooting daggers at Jim before shoving him back to his rightful place on the rail, while the new guard is yanking the gaunt prisoner to his feet. Jim grunts as he gets tangled in the chain between his ankles, and he falls on his side in the snow right next to his discarded hammer. He looks up at Ivan, who glares down at him and then at the other prisoners around them before barking out an order Jim learned very early on.

_“Get back to work!”_

* * *

Dusk has fallen by the time they’re marched back to their cells; another day of work put to rest. By some miracle the gaunt prisoner manages to stay on his feet the entire time.

Jim is led into his cell by a lone guard. As always, the bucket in the corner has been emptied and a plate of grey gruel with a mug of water is waiting for him on the floor. He sits down on his cot so the guard can unlock and remove the ankle cuffs. He isn’t allowed to move until the guard has left the cell and locked the door behind him.

Then, after the sound of the Russian’s footsteps have disappeared down the corridor, he is alone.

He empties the cup of water in one swig before he grabs the plate and forces down the gruel. It’s cold and tasteless but the only meal they get all day, so he eats it anyway. Somehow, he feels even more hungry afterwards.

After placing the empty plate and mug by the door, he curls up on his cot and tries to will the hunger pangs away. He shivers.

It’s the same thing every day; falling asleep hungry and cold after a day of backbreaking work on the train track. The only change in routine occurs when he is allowed to shower, which happens once every few weeks. He thinks. The monotony of the days makes it hard to keep track of how much time has passed.

At least they’re not torturing him anymore. The memories of his first few weeks with the Russians almost feel like a fever dream now, but the new scars on his body remind him it was all very real.

He remembers the sensory deprivation and isolation that almost drove him insane. He remembers how they starved him until he was too weak to even move. He remembers being tied to a chair while they beat him, burned him and pulled out his fingernails, and hanging from a chain in the ceiling as they whipped him.

Sometimes they didn’t even ask any questions; sometimes it was just hours upon hours of pain. When the questions finally came, they were always the same: how he had learned of the portal they had opened in Hawkins; who he was working for; what he had done to Grigori, and the scientist he had kidnapped (poor Alexei…).

He remembers screaming and crying and passing out from the pain. Above all he remembers thinking, over and over again, _don’t tell them about El, don’t tell them about El, don’t tell them about El..._

And he hadn’t, despite everything they put him through. If he can be proud of one thing in his god-forsaken life, it is that he never gave up his daughter to the Russians. Shame still eats at him whenever he thinks of the deal he made with Dr. Brenner, already years ago now, to save Will from the Upside Down. _Never again_ , he had promised himself. And he had kept his word.

He had, on the other hand, been more than willing to give his torturers a bloodstained grin and tell them how he put an end to Grigori.

Eventually they seemed convinced that he didn’t know anything important. That he was just a nosy small-town cop who had bitten off way more than he could chew and had foiled their plans with dumb luck. He had hoped that meant they would finally put him out of his misery. But apparently the Russians weren’t ones to waste a resource, and he was evidently more useful as a slave than as a corpse. He was given a week to recover from his injuries before he was chained up and thrown out onto the train track.

That had been months ago. He’s not even sure how many.

From the cell next to him he can hear talking. Quiet, mumbled Russian that sounds like prayers make it through the wall, as it does almost every night. Not for the first time Jim bitterly thinks that if there is a god, he abandoned this place a long time ago.

Suddenly, the sound of the door being unlocked startles him into an upright position. He rises to his feet and watches as it opens on screeching, rusted hinges. He knows something is very wrong when three guards enter his cell and lock the door behind them. He instantly recognizes one of them; it’s the man who had attempted to beat the other prisoner on the rails.

_Oh, shit._

The guard – Ivan – says something in Russian while moving forward. The other two close in on either side of Jim. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that the guard is still very much pissed off about what happened earlier that day. As he draws even closer, his expression slowly changes into a smile that sends a rush of genuine fear through Jim.

And he knows he is in deep, deep shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, 2400 words of pure physical and emotional whump *blushes intensely*

No one can say that Jim Hopper doesn’t put up a fight, even if it is short lived.

As the man on his right aims a punch at him, Jim dodges it and lands a hit of his own. The Russian grunts and staggers back, cradling his now bleeding nose. The thug on the other side takes the opportunity to tackle Jim like a goddamn football player, slamming him against the wall of the cell. He manages to knee the guy in the crotch so that he curses and stumbles back.

But then Ivan takes the opportunity to once again pistol whip him, this time right over his left eye. The world explodes with pain and he can’t see anything but dancing colors for several seconds. During this temporary blindness his arms are grabbed by the guards on either side of him, keeping him in place so that Ivan can slam his rifle into his stomach. He doubles over and wheezes as the wind is knocked out of him. When the two thugs let go of him, he crashes helplessly to the floor and stays there.

From then on, it’s an endless barrage of kicks and punches and mocking sneers in broken English. And they take their time. One even takes a break at one point by lying down on the cot and lighting a cigarette, which he later makes sure to put out against Jim’s skin, while watching as the others have their way with the prisoner. Being down and outnumbered and malnourished, there is no way for Jim to fight back. All he can do is try to protect himself as much as possible and stop any pained noises from escaping him.

Once the abuse finally lets up, he is curled up in a fetal position on the floor and panting harshly. One of the guards squats down next to his head, and Jim doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

“Know your place, _Amerikanskiy_ ,” Ivan sneers at him in a thick accent. His breath smells of vodka. “Challenge me, or my comrades, again and I will be back. And I won’t be nearly as nice then.”

Jim clenches his teeth but remains silent. Inside his head he is insulting Ivan with every foul word he knows, which is quite the list.

Before Ivan leaves, he gives Jim a parting gift in the form of a final kick in the gut. It’s so hard it makes him retch up what little he has in his stomach. As his eyes water and his throat burns, the three guards laugh and slam the door of his cell shut.

Slowly, Jim pushes himself up until he is sitting with his back against the cot. He takes deep breaths and tries to make the nausea go away. It doesn’t help that blood is running from his nose and into his mouth. He spits it out and wipes his nose with his already dirty sleeve.

“Damn it…” he mumbles shakily and runs a hand over his face, letting it linger over his eyes. His left eyebrow has been torn open and blood slowly starts to flow between his fingers. “Damn it all…”

When he finally drags himself up onto his cot, the blood on his face has gone dry. The soft cloth of his bed, thin as it may be, is comforting against his body as he lies down, closes his eyes and wishes for sleep to make the pain go away.

* * *

The guard that comes for him the next morning doesn’t comment on the cuts and bruises that now cover his face, or the vomit on the floor. Or the fact that his left eye is so swollen shut he can’t even see through it. The guard simply chains his feet together as usual and leads him out into the corridor.

As Jim works on the rail, he keeps his head down. He can feel several eyes on him, regarding his bruised and battered form and how he winces every time he raises the hammer. He refuses to meet their eyes, not keen on seeing the other prisoners’ pity or the guards’ indifference. He just wants this day to be over so he can lick his wounds in the isolation of his cell.

Close to the end of their shift he sees Ivan, who makes a show of slapping another prisoner harshly, seemingly unprovoked. He is glancing Jim’s way with a smirk on his lips, daring him to try anything. Jim clenches his teeth and balls his hands into fists. He wants to do something stupid, just to show Ivan he isn’t scared of him, but ultimately looks down in surrender. The Russian’s parting threat from last night is still fresh in his mind, and he has no doubts the other man will follow through on it if provoked. And despite what some people in Hawkins might think, he sometimes knows when not to pick a fight. Still, his cheeks heat in humiliation as he thinks he hears a small chuckle from the Soviet.

_It’s all about survival_ , he tells himself. He just needs to keep himself alive, one day at a time, day after day, until… until something changes, he supposes.

Whatever that may be.

That evening after his meal, he is lying on his back on the cot and listening to the usual faint murmuring coming from the cell next to his. The sound is strangely calming, and since he is even more exhausted than usual, courtesy of the beating he took yesterday, it isn’t long before his good eye is falling shut.

He has almost drifted off when the lock rattles. In just a moment he is wide awake, sitting up and staring at the door as it opens and closes behind three men in uniforms.

_No_.

The breath catches in his throat, as if a hand has closed around his windpipe. He jumps to his feet and tries to back away, but he’s already in the corner of the small cell. The guards chuckle.

“No,” he says, once he finds his voice. “No, no, I didn’t do anything today. I didn’t do anything, I…” His voice cracks, and it makes them laugh. “ _I didn’t do anything!_ ”

He fights like a cornered animal as they close in around him. He’s high on fear and adrenaline, but it’s not enough against the three of them, just like it wasn’t enough yesterday.

He is slammed onto his cot and held down as fists collide with his face and chest and gut, over and over again. It’s even worse this time since every hit seem to land on an already formed bruise or a cracked bone. He does his best to keep quiet, but groans still escape before he can stop them.

After what seems like an eternity, they grab him and heave him onto the floor. He lands hard with an audible _crack_ from his ribcage. He gasps in air as he struggles onto his elbows.

Through the pain, he registers that someone is pulling his shoes off. He turns his head and sees Ivan crouched down by his now bare feet. The Russian is pulling out a long knife from a sheath that is attached to his belt. The blade gleams in the dim light of the cell. Jim feels himself panic.

“ _W-Wait!_ ” he pleads in Russian, before coughing up a mouthful of blood. He tries to get up, but strong hands press down on his shoulders and back, keeping him in place. As he struggles against the weight, he feels Ivan grab a hold of his left ankle. He is helpless to stop what’s happening, and fear spreads through him like a wildfire.

The knife slices open the underside of his foot in one long, deep drag from toes to heel. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut to stop himself from screaming. He can feel the blood pour out of the cut, and it’s like every nerve in his body is centered in his foot, radiating pain outwards until it encompasses his whole being.

While he is still struggling to recover, he feels Ivan lower his foot and grab the other. He has no time to prepare himself before the knife tears through the skin and muscles of his other foot as well.

He can’t help it this time; he wails into the floor.

Afterward, he lies there gasping and shuddering. He barely feels it when the hands on his back disappear, and only vaguely notices Ivan stand up and move around to his head.

“Do you understand what I’m trying to teach you, _Amerikanskiy_?” Ivan says as he crouches down opposite Jim. He notices he’s got blood on his hands and wipes it off on Jim’s shirt. He lets the prisoner wait before answering his own question. “We own you. We decide when you work. When you sleep. When you eat. When you die. If I want to use you for entertainment, or to – what is the term? – blow off steam, I do. No matter what you have or have not done.”

He goes to sit on the cot and lights a cigarette. The other guards light their own but choose to stand by the door instead. Jim doesn’t move. He looks at the floor in front of him and wishes they’ll just leave without hurting him any more than they already have. He realizes how pitiful that is, but doesn’t care. He can’t take any more pain, not tonight.

“Here.” Ivan says after a while, after he has stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it into Jim’s mug of water. Jim, who feels utterly exhausted, barely looks up. There is a rustle of fabric as Ivan reaches into his uniform jacket and pulls something out. He throws it in front of Jim as he rises to his feet. “A gift.”

He steps over the abused body on the floor and joins his comrades. He mumbles something in Russian that Jim doesn’t catch, and the trio chuckles. They exit the cell and slam the door behind them. The lock rattles.

Jim remains on the floor where they left him, too hurt to do anything else but lie there and breathe. After a while, he looks up at the thing Ivan threw before him. It’s a folded piece of paper. He reaches out and pulls it toward himself, still lying on his stomach on the floor. He unfolds the paper and realizes it is the front page of a newspaper, an American newspaper no less: the _Indianapolis Gazette_. Someone must have snagged a copy before leaving the country.

With a gasp, Jim realizes it is about the incident at Starcourt mall, the headline simply stating _Thirty dead_. He skims through the words quickly, desperately wishing that the kids and everyone else made it out all right. Ever since he “died” when Joyce closed the gate he’s had no way of knowing if the rest of the plan worked, and it’s been making him sick with worry. As he reads, blood drips from his split lip and onto the paper.

There isn’t a lot of text to go through on the one page. What it does say is that a fire broke out inside Starcourt and quickly spread throughout the mall, killing at least thirty people in the process. It’s as good a cover story as any, he supposes. It doesn’t publish the names of any of the dead, however, and once he’s finished reading he doesn’t feel calmer.

He’s been so focused on the Starcourt story that it isn’t until now that he notices another article, to the right of the big one. The headline reads _Hero Chief dies in fire_ , and underneath it is a picture of himself. The small article says that chief Jim Hopper was among the casualties in the Starcourt fire, and there are some quotes from Callahan saying that he was a good man who will be greatly missed. That, to Callahan, he will always be a hero. As Jim reads, the paper starts to tremble in his hands, and he realizes this is what the Russian wanted him to see.

That James Hopper is dead to the world. Not “missing in action” or “presumed dead”, but officially deceased.

Logically, he already knew this. Joyce practically watched him die, there is no reason for them to believe that he somehow survived. There is no reason for them to look for him. He knows this, but still…

Up until now a small, subconscious part of him never gave up hope. He kept fighting and surviving day after day because a part of him always believed that there would be an _after_. That somehow there would be a life after this hell, where he was reunited with El and Joyce and everyone else back home.

He now realizes what a vain and foolish hope that was.

Everyone thinks he’s dead. No one is coming for him.

Ivan’s voice is ringing in his head.

_Know your place, Amerikanskiy._

_We own you._

_If I want to use you for entertainment, I do._

_We decide when you die._

There won’t _be_ an after. He’ll be here until the Russians decide to kill him or he simply collapses on the rails. And no one will know that he didn’t perish as a hero under Starcourt mall but that he died here, cold and alone with a shaved head and in dirty prison garments.

The breath hitches in his throat as one devastating realization hits him.

He’ll never see El again.

He lays his head down on the cold floor and curls into a ball as he finally breaks down. His miserable sobs fill the small, barren cell and his whole body is shaking from the violence of it. He cries until his sleeve is soaked through and the newspaper is stained with saltwater as well as blood. Even though he hates this proof that everything has been taken from him and that he is all alone, he clutches the paper to his chest, close to his heart. It’s the only piece of home he has left.

“P-please… El…” he sobs into the floor. “Joyce... Murray… please, please, help me. I just want to go home. El…”

He weeps until he falls asleep there on the floor, exhausted and in pain. For once, there is no sound from the other cell as its occupant silently listen to his heartbreak.


End file.
